Interrogation
by Velvedere
Summary: Scarlet Pimpernel fic. Armand defends Percy while in prison...and takes on a great responsibility. Based on an RPG. (Thanks Fairlith!)


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Interrogation

Velvedere

Chauvelin was quickly losing his patience. He'd been standing stationary for almost half an hour now, watching his men thrash and beat the young traitor they'd captured on the French seacoast. Still, Armand St. Just refused to talk. Despite their threats, their promises, he would tell them nothing of the Pimpernel and his League. They continued to beat him, torture him, and any previous thoughts Chauvelin had about Armand's weakness were slowly nullified. The younger brother of Marguerite would weep, scream out in agony, wail to God and for death, but he would never give in.

Chauvelin continued to watch, his temper growing dangerously short, as Mercier slammed his fist repeatedly into Armand's soft gut, Coupeau holding the traitor's arms in a twisted pin. After each sickening impact into the young man's flesh Mercier would repeat his demand, and each time Armand would refuse. A blow to the head, the jaw, stomach, or limbs...he would not give in.

"Enough!" Chauvelin finally barked. Like two well-trained attack dogs Mercier and Coupeau backed away from the prisoner, letting the young man collapse to the ground in a heap of aching flesh. Chauvelin abandoned his solitary stance against the damp prison wall and approached them, his gaze fixed on the traitorous prisoner like prey. Stopping just at the fallen Frenchman's side, Chauvelin stood in stark silence, listening to Armand's pathetic whimpers as he writhed in agony on the filthy ground, bleeding and broken. The Revolutionary's face was cold, hard, without pity or compassion, and with only a flinch of determination cutting his dark, fox-like eyes he kicked Armand savagely in the gut. The younger man buckled, crying out, tears of pain and sorrow unchecked.

"I grow tired of your stubbornness, St. Just," Chauvelin growled savagely. "Your options are simple: talk or die!"

Armand's answer was the same: pathetic, whimpering, broken by sobs. "I'll never tell you anything..." A reply which received him only another swift kick. Gesturing the guards away, Chauvelin knelt beside the quivering prisoner, reaching down to take a rough hold of Armand's chin and force his face up so that their gazes met. Armand's were pain-ridden in sorrow and agony, Chauvelin's cold-blooded determination.

"You do realize that by refusing to speak," Chauvelin growled, "you are a traitor to your own country and will therefore be guillotined without a second glance?"

"I don't care," Armand wept, trying unsuccessfully to pull away. "Better I betray my country gone insane than the Pimpernel."

Blood boiling to the point of explosion, Chauvelin drew a wicked, gleaming dagger from his sash and pushed it under Armand's chin, removing his hand so the young man was forced to hold up his own weight as high as Chauvelin lifted the dagger: an obviously painful thing to do. "You're loyal to him, then?" the Revolutionary spat with mocking sarcasm. "Loyal to an Englishman who has left you here in these cells all alone? Left you here to confess or die?"

"He won't leave me," Armand whimpered. "I have faith...I'll be rescued."

Chauvelin didn't stop his hollow laugh, jabbing the dagger until a trickle of blood marred its silver sheen, adding just another wound to Armand's recent collection. "The devil you will! You are in the deepest section of this prison in the heart of Paris, a place the Pimpernel has never before infiltrated. Nor have we left any clue as to where you are being held. How will he find you?"

"He will...I know it."

"He will not!" Chauvelin whipped the dagger away back into its sheath, allowing Armand to drop back to his hands and knees. Chauvelin stood, whirling to the guards who stood at rigid attention. "Anything!" he barked. "Torture him! Beat him! Do what you must! But make him talk!" Turning, he glared back at the prisoner who had lowered himself down to the ground, clasping his hands together and mumbling an assortment of raspy prayers. "But do not kill him...we want him alive."

Chauvelin was prepared to leave, ready to leave Armand to the mercy—or lack thereof—of the guards he had complete confidence in. _Let the traitor die in his rotting cell_, the Revolutionary growled as he stalked wolfishly for the door. _I'll have the Pimpernel soon enough_. But he stopped. Stopping in his tracks, he listened. Turning back to the desolate scene in the dimly-lit prison cell, he stared down at Armand, listening to his rambling muttered prayers.

"God watch over Percy and Marguerite...keep them safe...and Miss Adelie as well..."

Chauvelin's face lifted in visible realization. Of course! Adelie...the young beauty of a prostitute. She had been carrying the Pimpernel's ring when they had nearly captured her. Chauvelin had the ring now, and the idea that sprung into his dark, twisted mind then made him remember. Percy and Marguerite were family members of Armand...of course he would ask God for their safety. But what of Adelie? She was undoubtedly involved in the League herself, therefore had the chance to know Armand. Yet they weren't related... Chauvelin's grin was pure evil as it dawned on him that Armand must have had strong feelings towards her. They had finally come full-circle in their acquaintances.

Chauvelin chuckled evilly and approached again. "No...I've got a better idea." Again he knelt beside Armand, who was now lying very still, panting for breath against the pain of his wounds. Chauvelin reached out, stroking the prisoner's dark hair as one would a dog and speaking as though to a child. "I think I'm beginning to see the logic behind your loyalty, St. Just. Yes."

Armand cringed away from the cold, killing hands and what they were capable of, but couldn't go far. Trembling, weeping now somewhat in check, Armand looked up of his own will, saying nothing but expecting anything.

"Yes. You are a good man, St. Just. That I know. We are both capable Frenchman, are we not? We have the same goals. The same dreams."

"I'm nothing like you..." Armand rasped weakly.

"Perhaps, yet as I do you feel strongly for a certain woman. A French woman. One of great beauty."

Armand's eyes deepened, his jaw going slack, and Chauvelin knew he had guessed correct. His grin widened in wickedness.

"Such a pity if something were to happen to poor Adelie, wouldn't it?"

Seeming to forget his wounds, his aching body, Armand reared up, grabbing for a desperate hold on Chauvelin's coat edge. "Adelie?! What about her? Is she in danger?!"

Chauvelin could scarcely believe the prisoner's naiveté. But he didn't question it. He couldn't have asked for a more careless and half-witted tool. "She is not now," Chauvelin hissed, tossing his line. "But she very well could be. Very soon."

Armand took it. "What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid the proud beauty is also under our lovely hospitality at the prison, being interrogated just as you are. She could share the same fate if she refuses to talk." In the dim torchlight Chauvelin could see the youth's sleek, almost feminine face turn ghostly white. "But then, perhaps, you could save both her and yourself."

"I....I d-don't believe you..."

"We found this in her possession when she was captured, just about to leave Le Havre for England." With the finalization of the guillotine itself, Chauvelin dropped onto the ground before Armand a single golden object. A ring set with a carved ruby stone. He watched as Armand reached out, touching it gingerly, taking the ring up in his trembling hand to stare hard at it. Chauvelin went on coldly. "She knew you were captured, St. Just, and still she was leaving. Whatever you feel for her is all one-sided, I'm afraid."

"No..." Armand choked, his hand closing over the ring tightly despite his weakness. "No...I love her. She knows I do."

"Yes, but does she love you in return?" Chauvelin asked skillfully, playing Armand directly into his trap. By the pained expression covering the younger man's face, he knew he was succeeding.

"I told her I did..."

"But did she answer?"

Armand said nothing. He remained in his submissive four-limbed crouch, his face fallen limply towards the ground. He had no idea of the game Chauvelin was so cunningly playing.

"She didn't," Chauvelin finalized quietly, glancing back with a knowing smirk to the two guards standing by, watching their superior work. "Yet now I offer you the chance to save her. You can save her and yourself."

"H-H-How?"

"Just tell me who the Scarlet Pimpernel is."

Armand nearly collapsed, not only physically but emotionally, mentally. The guards hadn't let him catch the slightest amount of sleep in three days. He'd been starved, tortured, humiliated, and the notion that his loyalty to Percy and the League still held firm was a wonder in itself. But he was quickly wearing thin. His willpower was waning for lack of energy to draw it from: pain, exhaustion, starvation, fear, sorrow. The torment would never stop, he knew. Here he was being offered the chance of freedom, freedom for himself and Adelie though he had no way of knowing she was at that moment planning his rescue with Percy and Marguerite in England. But the price was to deprive Percy of his, possibly Marguerite as well. No...no, that was not even an option! Armand would willingly make any sacrifice, no matter how great, if it meant keeping Percy and his sister from harm. He would die for his beloved Scarlet Pimpernel. He would die to protect Marguerite. But what about Adelie? Was she willing to make the same sacrifice? What if he really could save her?

Armand shook his head in weak defeat, his voice absolute despair. "No..."

Chauvelin persisted. He could see Armand's desperation, could see him breaking down visibly now before him. Any more pressure and he would break. "Tell me, Armand. Tell me and you and Adelie will be free to go."

"No...I can't."

"Tell me, Armand."

"No!"

"Tell me! Or you both will die."

"No!!"

"Tell me who he is!"

Armand broke.

"_I am_!"


End file.
